Page 54 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
Noah is wearing jeans and a flannel and holding his own armload of books. He’s smiling down at the tote bag on the chair at my table. Wally and Olly are peeking out over the rim.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asks. Then he looks from my stack of books to his own. We’ve got several of the same titles in our piles.
“Are you stalking me, Kenna Papadopoulos?” he asks.
Sweet irony.
“You know what they say.” I attempt to play it cool. “There are no coincidences. But how do I know you’re not the one stalking me?”
“Fair enough,” Noah says. “If I’d have known you were going to be here today, I might have made a special trip. What a treat to run into you here, away from work.”
His eyes are magnetic. Puppy-dog brown. Chocolatey and rich. Staring into them makes my heart somehow beat slower and harder. Like I’m being melted into them. I force myself to glance away, and then when I look back, all I can see is his swoopy upper lip. I’m dying to touch it and …uh-oh.
Erotic images are tumbling through my mind, unbidden. I pinch my lower lip, hard, to distract myself. It works, for a moment.
“You look nice in that tee.” His irresistible lips twist a little as he reads it out loud, “Guns, Ammo, Snow Cones?”
“What else could a girl need?” I look down at my chest. I should have worn a real bra. My dirty thoughts have loaded my guns.
“Someone to share it all with?” Noah says. He’s flirting. Like, for-real flirting. And I don’t want him to stop. He’s also looking at my chest. Which is my bad. I looked first.
“I have someone. Someones, actually,” I say in an attempt to defuse the situation.
“Oh really?” Noah raises an eyebrow. “Anyone I know?”
“I mean, you’ve just met them.” I gesture at the stuffies in the bag that I’ve moved to the floor. “Wally and Olly are great company. But don’t worry, they’re not the jealous type of marine animals.”
“Thank goodness for that. It would be dreadfully unfair if they wanted to keep you all to themselves.” Noah smiles slowly, his face opening up like one of those timelapse videos of a flower blooming. First, one corner of his mouth. Then the lower lip, then the other corner, and one eye crinkling. Then his forehead, and suddenly, his whole face is lit up, like a thing of beauty. It feels like a deliberate release. Like we’ve just shared a secret, and he’s showing me his hidden treasure.
What the hell is the matter with Kenna anyway? With this whole town? Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart is beating so slow. So hard. The eye contact goes on for longer than it should. But I cannot look away. I can feel the saliva in my mouth. I can feel my heartbeat throbbing … everywhere.
Noah licks his lips, and I want to taste them. My own tongue snakes out to lick my own. Monkey see, monkey— Noah raises an eyebrow and lays his hand on my arm without breaking contact.
It’s warm. Bare skin on skin. Oh, God, how long has it been since I have had sex? Longer than it’s been since I’ve been in a goddamn bookstore. There are only so many smut novels a girl can read before she can’t take it anymore.
“Kenna,” he says, hungrily. And then I remember who I am. Which is not Kenna.
“Noah.” I blink and look away, yanking my arm away as I pretend to distractedly search through my bag for something. A pen? A phone? A notebook? All already on the table. Absent another excuse, I pull out Wally and hug him to my chest, attempting to discharge my tension by stroking his fur.Ugh. It’s no use!
I’d rather be stroking Noah’s fur. Would his chest be furry under that flannel? From the way he’s staring at my hand, I think he might be thinking the same thing.
“I was just about to grab some tea.” Noah exhales. “Can I get anything for you or your friends?” Noah asks, standing slowly and grabbing the walking stick.
“I’d love a hot cocoa,” I say. “I was actually planning to read some more of your module next. I’m pretty much done looking through these.” I gesture to the pile.
“In that case,” Noah says, “let’s get out of here. These chairs are not even a little bit comfy, and I’ve got some great Dutch cocoa at my place.”
“That sounds like a line, Mr. Greenberg,” I say.
“Oh, God, do not call me that. You sound like one of my students,” he groans.
“Then what am I supposed to call you?”
“How about ‘Master’ Greenberg?” He leans forward, and his eyes crinkle and twinkle again, but this time, there’s a little smolder there. A tiny spark, threatening to catch. All it would take is the slightest breeze. I’m tempted to blow on him. Gently.
“As in Dungeon Master Greenberg?”
“If that’s what you’re into.” Oh, God, his voice just got all low and smoky again.
